


Running From Crawford ~ A 'What If' Scenaro

by TheCourtJester485



Series: Hannigraham One-shots! [3]
Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: A little angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Conflicted Hannibal Lecter, Crawford yelling, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham - Freeform, Hannibal is injured, Hurt, Other, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Protective Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham is So Done, as usual, on the run in Florence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24586720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCourtJester485/pseuds/TheCourtJester485
Summary: When surrounded by Crawford's men in Florence after the fall, Will gives Hannibal the chance to slip away, using himself as a distraction... But will he take it?
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter & Clarice Starling
Series: Hannigraham One-shots! [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775353
Kudos: 29





	Running From Crawford ~ A 'What If' Scenaro

“Shit, it’s Crawford...”

Flashes of red and blue light flicker through the blinds, reflecting harshly over Graham's face as he glares through the aged and cracking window panes. Cocking his trusty P226, he takes a step back, biding his time as he readies himself for a fight. Apart of him secretly yearns for it considering they might not even make it out of Florence–not _alive_ at least.

“Alright, we’re outta time–you need to go, now.” Graham says, snapping his focus onto him.

“I’m not fleeing from Jack. Certainly not without you–”

“ _Go_ , Hannibal... If you stay they’ll kill you.” he urges, eyeing through the blinds once more, “You’ve been shot once already… I can buy you some time.”

The striking chromatic fire of Lecter’s eyes glisten in the light of the cruiser outside; Graham still wasn’t looking at him, if he was, maybe he would be unsuspecting of the sheer authenticity in his gaze. Even after falling from a cliff together, he’s curious as to why Graham’s willing to aid in his escape despite everything they've been through–that is, unless it’s to entrap him into a false sense of security… After all, ex-special agent Will Graham has all the reason in the world to deceive him, to entice him towards the hook with his renewed trust, heightened further by the potential of genuine, rejuvenated friendship as the perfect bait… Either way, he has no doubt Graham has an idea idling in that remarkable mind. Whether it’s allowing him to escape in earnest or perhaps so that he can kill him _himself_ is forfeit in the doctor’s thoughts, it’s intriguing to him nonetheless.

Extending an arm, Lecter places a firm, bloodied hand onto the other man’s shoulder and three words, each unexpected, fall from his mouth, “Come with me.”

Graham shakes his head. A huff gratingly passing through his gritted teeth, almost like a hiss, “ _Jesus_ , Hannibal, just–”

“You said it yourself, we’re out of time. Please, Will.”

Graham eases, slowly turning his head to face him with uncertainty spread across his sharpened features, frown lines becoming more prominent as he unintentionally stares into the core of the mans eyes; taken-a-back by his plea. This is a man, he knew, that a lifetime ago would've done _anything_ to escape capture, to stay out the hands of both Crawford and the FBI: yet here he stands, injured and bleeding, asking him to leave alongside him. A sense of eerily familiarity streams through him… It leaves him feeling strange–nostalgic, even, though for a different reason.

_I can't leave him..._

A pregnant-pause fills the room, Graham regards him for a moment before nodding in response.

“Good.” Lecter says, a subtle smile etching on the corners of his cupids bow.

Both men break their line of site and march for the door without another word. Graham prepares himself, positioning his body into the weaver stance having raised his gun. Trekking down the derelict hallway a few paces ahead of Lecter, he gives a brief check to the rooms scattered on both sides. Time isn’t their ally this day; the sand nearing the bottom of the hourglass jetting inside the walls of his mind.

The doctor’s hand swiftly returns to his abdominal wound in attempts to control the bleeding. Once again, it continues to seep between his fingers, rousing a sharp pain; anyone else would find such an affliction debilitating, where as he doesn’t even wince. It’s like a white-hot harpoon was forced through him rather than the puncture of a bullet, _You're getting old, Jack,_ he thinks to himself amusingly, _a few years ago you would’ve nailed the kill shot. Not anymore it seems._

Having made it through the hallway, Graham nudges open the last door to the left of the foyer, leading outside into the courtyard, promptly checking either side of him upon getting it open. All clear. Gesturing Lecter through, he lowers his gun, though not holstering it. They take a step, maybe two before they hear the shot cutting through the evening quiet. There’s a weighty thud as Graham’s body impacted the concrete, landing him onto his back; reminiscent to that of their reunion at the Ufitzi Gallery.

Lecter rushes to get him up, his own injury flared and burning around the exit wound of Crawford’s memento to him. He soldiers through it like it’s nothing, practically dragging an almost shell-shocked Will Graham to his feet–balancing the weight of his trembling body by hooking an arm around his shoulder. With great attentiveness he scans the rooftops, windows, then finally the balcony overlooking the main building several hundred yards from them. His breath hitches in his throat, unblinking eyes instantly recognizing the face behind the gun:

“ _Clarice_ …”

Even from that distance, Lecter could see the fire raging behind her marble eyes, the loyalty behind them in pursuit of serving justice. Only, there's something else–an almost mournful quality concealed deep within them. _She_ was the one that warned Lecter of the FBI closing in on their location several days earlier courtesy of the last letter she wrote, signing _'Hannah'_ at the bottom as she’d done in the past; that being the final time she ever would.

And now? Now she’d shot her former teacher in the shoulder for the sake of what Lecter presumed to be authenticity–she’d never shown any sign of dislike towards Graham, only genuine decency and respect for his teachings at the academy back in Quantico. Unlike his other students, she didn’t whisper about his social oddities or distant nature to her peers behind his back. Nor did she place judgement on him for his instability and eventual arrest for the Copycat Killings from almost four years prior. In fact, she was one of the few that believed him to be innocent and helped his defence case alongside renowned psychiatrist, Alana Bloom.

“Starling? Sh-she shot me?” he mutters, confused and clenching his teeth.

Truthfully, Lecter hadn’t known she was going to be here. He suspected that Jack Crawford would have made her stay in Baltimore given the shared history between the three of them. However, knowing Agent Starling, she had to ensure the FBI weren’t aware of her interference. Not to mention, if she’s the one to fire on them then the other snipers would be hesitant to do the same as they’ve been ordered to take the duo alive. Shooting either of them once could incapacitate them, sure, but twice–that could be fatal, let alone sloppy. And given the fact Lecter’s been hit already, Crawford’s men couldn’t take that risk and Starling knew it. In both her eyes and Lecter’s, she did them both a favour. Whether Graham see’s it that way has yet to be seen.

***

Starling watches as Lecter turns to lead them both away, but not before exchanging one last goodbye between them through the silence of a look. Unsure of what to feel, she starts to dismantle the sniper, swallowing each of the conflicting emotions threatening to pour from her throat; they were more of a lump than a sum. Upon removing the barrel, the crackling of radio static disturbed the recent hush with Crawford ordering her to respond. She chins the walkie attached to her breast pocket, “Sorry, sir, say again?”

“What _happened_ , Starling?” he bellows through the speaker, the agent cringes from the noise, “I heard the shot, did someone hit the targets?”

“I shot Will Graham, sir–he’s alive.”

“I’m calling off the other snipers, can’t take the risk of killing them,” he pauses. She packed the gun into it’s case, nervous anticipation looming through the electrified air around her, “agent Starling?”

“Yessir,”

“If you ever open fire in the field without informing me ahead a time, you’re suspended until further notice. Is that understood? There’s no need for you to make this personal.”

“Yessir, understood. Starling out.”

Ready to leave, she rises; taking in the image of Lecter and Graham fleeing the scene a final time from atop the building, their silhouettes fading behind the distant treeline. With nothing left to say, she walks toward the ladder at the far side. Lecter was right–the lambs would never stop screaming–but, he never said she can’t quiet them. The steel rails are cold around her grasping fingers, distancing herself away from not just the roof, but her past with the two men.

Who knows? Perhaps one day, they will.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :-)


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